


Dark Gods

by yungdreams



Category: Yandere Simulator (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Sex, Knives, Purple Prose, Schoolgirls, Sweat, drool, tattooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9874865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yungdreams/pseuds/yungdreams
Summary: Ayano seduces Oka in an attempt to assassinate her. Oka is not quite as helpless as she seems.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first YanSim fic! Same obnoxious style that I'm getting better at spinning. I wrote this one off a steady diet of mostly caffeine and doom metal. I'm kinda proud of this one even though it's still very rough around the edges, and I ~may~ write sequels with more Oka/Ayano stuff.
> 
> (Oka best girl bruh)

It was a week until summer vacation. Outside, the sun fell in fiery descent; the world a curling orange.

The last bell had rung hours past: kill-kong kang-kong, kill-kong kang-kong.

The school had all the deathly stillness of a blighted beehive. No chittering, no chattering. Deserted but for the clubrooms where members were.

But, there was nothing to be heard over the cicada’s screams.

Ayano had seen Oka beside the gnarled oak in the courtyard, staring. At whom? For what? And again at the emaciated cherry tree in the back of the school grounds, green and sagging in the summer heat. For her? For Yamada?

Ayano had followed her with a commanding closeness that spoke, almost whispering over her shoulder like a hungry ghost.

The hallways were on fire.

They were in the clubroom.

She was beautiful, a kind of mirror-entity kith to the girl in front of her. From afar, Oka’s hair was black. Ayano’s was black too, the dull-colored empty cosmos black of the polluted sky over a factory town. Up close, Oka’s hair was the color of midnight in the swamp, blue and black, like jackdaw feathers, all curled and falling in loose, unkempt ringlets around her heavy-lidded eyes. She was quivering as Ayano approached her, a rabbit with her back to the wall of the classroom, staring into the slavering jaws of a fox. 

This could not be. Ayano saw her as she followed Yamada. She was a predator, as Ayano was.

“Aishi… you’re really close…”

Her breath was like the summer winds carried up from the south; hot and heavy, brimming with the smells of impending rain and freshly-bloomed lilac trees, perfumed sickly-sweet. Ayano could not help but touch her. Her skin was so pale. She was so plain, like her. She was all pale skin and dark hair and unseated feelings under her high school uniform, bone-thin and modest-chested, like a doll with paper skin. Ayano let go of her wrist. Oka did not recoil further. 

This could not be. She was a coward. She was no predator.

The clubroom was like a firepit. Ayano put her nose to Oka’s neck, pressing it against her choker. A bead of sweat, clear and pearly, ran down Oka’s temple. Ayano felt fingers in her hair. Oka shuddered. She let Ayano hold her.

Oka smelled like candle wax, flat and oily, and of the moldering odor of crumbling tome leather, of libraries and hushed words and dark circles and signs of salt and chalk.

There were hands in her hair and hands under her shirt and hands under her skirt.

It was Monday.  
***

She was back the next day. Oka waited for her. The clubroom was still empty, still filled with the same decayed sense of submerged solitude, all over papered in purples and reds and blacks.

The floor was cool. Ayano was on top of her. Their hands, their fingers entangled. Their lips pressed to one another.

Oka was a reluctant soul. She had felt so lost. This was surely a gift from dark gods beyond this world. Oka felt complete in Ayano. Ayano was like her, had felt the same kind of furtive craving, the same stirrings in her thoughts and the same skip in her pulse, for another girl. Whatever prayers she had for her unrequited love, for Taeko Yamada, had twisted, morphed, found their way to Ayano Aishi, who had answered her missive. Here there was the fortune of shipwrecked sailors blown together by the hot summer winds. For this to happen was like licking ambrosia from the palms of an angel.

Ayano could not stop herself. Oka was not Yamada. Oka could not distract her from Yamada. There was nothing between the two of them. There was nothing comparing the two of them. 

It was a kind of languid indulgence that brought Ayano back to the clubroom. She was an easy target, so guarded, curled inwards and tugging her skirt down, always wearing the same long-armed gloves and leggings; black, with spiderweb pattern running criss-crossed and coiling. Ayano liked them, she thought them cute. Here there was the joy of a tyrant plucking a serendipitous prize from amongst the wreckage of an enemy city; like fingers scooping honeycomb from a human skull. Ayano had won already. She was too busy gloating to ruin her arrangement.

Oka would have moaned if not for the hand at her mouth. Ayano could not be too careful.

This was an assassination, after all.

It was Tuesday.  
***

Oka gave her a pair of her tights. Black, with white spiderweb patterns, sweat-stained and pilled. Ayano liked them. But to wear them? Out of the question.

“We…we can be together…if you want…I’ve never met another person like you.”

Her senpai was at the heart of this. Oka could tell that Ayano did not feel for her what she felt. Taeko Yamada had always been the real target.

“I’m not brave enough to… to talk about us… but if you wore those… people would know we… we’re friends.”

It was calculated.

“Ayano… I can talk to you… right?”

Oka twisted her fingers together. Her eyes pierced the ground in front of Ayano.

“I can trust you… right?”

Oka proposed a trade. It was generous.

“Ayano… what do you think… about Yamada?”

Ayano smiled.

Oka was a predator after all. Outside, the cicadas screamed as the fiery sun touched the earth.

The heat was intoxicating. Their clothes were logged with sweat and clung to them as a shroud to a corpse. 

Oka’s breath was still sticky-sweet. She reeked of lilacs, the smell billowing on the rivulets of perspiration running down her arms and face. The room had no windows.

When Ayano came, she bared her teeth like moccasin fangs.

It was Wednesday.  
***

“Please, Ayano. D-don’t do this.”

She had said it, beseeched it, before Ayano could even get a wayward finger on the knife’s handle behind her back.

“P-please.”

Gone was the vixen with whom she’d bounded in the field. Oka had foreseen her end.

“Anything, please…”

“I’m sorry, Oka.”

The words came out without her meaning them. It felt like a formality, a scroll stamped in wax. A thank-you note for the week spent in a narcotic haze.

The knife was old, but sharp. Little spots of rust stippled the blade. Its handle was black plastic. It had come from the kitchens. Yet it was heavy.

Ayano had taken everything she had needed from Oka. Passion, trust, even photos of her body, sleeping, draped in her school uniform like a blanket. Oka had been far more valuable to Ayano than she had ever appeared. Was such an asset to be discarded?

“Please give me something… ”

Oka bared her shoulders. On her left was where Ayano had bit her, fiercely, on Wednesday. A mark, two cloudy and bubbled red crescents, faced opposite one another. Like teeth marks in wax.

“I want you… to m-make it permanent… and I’ll forget about Yamada… I’ll help you.”

In Oka’s bag were bookbinder’s needles, ink, bandages, clean rags, and rubbing alcohol. Each pierce of the needle was deliberate. Oka squirmed as Ayano worked, outlining the bite, dot by dot. Maybe it was Oka’s breath, which grew heavy and full as Ayano drew, or the minor motions she made from each puncture, clamping her thighs together and shifting her hips. Her gaze was reverently focused on Ayano, her lilac eyes sentinel and faced ahead as she drew breath, a line of drool running down her chin.

The sounds of the cicadas raised the hair on Ayano’s neck.

It was Thursday.  
***

“How about… you take r-responsibility… for what you own, Ayano?“

“I s-said… I’d help you, right?”

Najimi had fallen for somebody else; the shy boy who followed her to and from club activities, looking onwards longingly at the girl he would never be beside, if not for Ayano’s careful direction. Odayaka, shunned from school after the whole cooking club had gotten sick from eating her cakes, the gossip as thick as the heat in the air. Sunobu, expelled for theft and cigarettes brokered from Oka’s shadowy informant. Oka had watched closely to draw Ayano’s attention back to her. Had she ever liked Taeko Yamada to begin with?

The knife was at Oka’s side. Ayano knew she could move faster than her. Who was Oka? It was as if the sigil she’d cut into Oka’s skin had changed her.

“You’d… get Taeko… and you’d g-get me too… a-and I’d get you.”

Oka had never held a knife before. Ayano could tell that she was willing to.

The knife was a little boxcutter. A snapknife in a steel-colored casing. To be shortened when the blade dulled, to bare forth a razor edge and begin again. A knife sharp enough to part flesh and muscle like opening the pages of a book.

“Oka, what do you know about Rito?”

It was Friday.  
***

The mark on Oka’s shoulder had healed. She had kept it delicately cleaned. The spots shone a dull cosmos black, a permanent bite in grayscale, poison suspended mid-fester. She was different now. It was as if Ayano had killed her, and brought her back from death.

The morning bell sounded: kill-kong, kang kong, kill-kong, kang kong.

The two of them grasped hands, interlocking their fingers, surrounded by other students in the rush to morning class, the barest touch of hunters in the midst of a sea of prey. Like twin hawks roosting below a flock of petrel. They were like dark gods from beyond this world.

Oka kissed Ayano on the cheek. The spot where her lips had touched burned in the morning wind. A discarded cicada skin crunched under Ayano’s foot.

It was Monday.


End file.
